


All That Jazz

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Kissing, Poetic Language, Rufus is there briefly, Song Lyrics, alcohol mention, exes au, implied sex, mild bad language, musicians au, you decide which of those is worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: Lucy's got a new bandmate. Unfortunately, that's the only part of this that's new.(Actors-turned-musicians AU + I haven't-seen-you-in-ten-years AU = almost technically not a songfic.)
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	All That Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for princessamerigo on Twitter/@princessamerigocreations on Tumblr for Garcy Secret Santa! 
> 
> A modern musicians!AU, wherein our babes have History. Rated Mature, with mild language warnings, one alcohol mention, and implied sex towards the end. Title and content are loosely based off the song of the same name from the musical Chicago. Enjoy, my friends, and happy Christmas!

Lucy studies herself in the window of the recording studio. She’d been excited for this moment, but it’s hard to make a half-shorn, pink-dipped pixie look sexy and alluring. With a huff, she shucks off her leather jacket and flips it over her shoulder. She’ll just have to impress their new bandmate with her wit and sparkling charm.

It’s Rufus’s fault she’s so nervous to meet him, but there’s no one to blame but herself for being here in the first place. She’d been insistent that the first thing she wanted was to get back in the studio, jet lag be damned. Because Rufus is her be-hoodied, adorably awkward angel, he had picked her up at the airport--and then mentioned their new bandmate, with an eyebrow wiggle that said even he could see how well they’d match. Lucy had laughed and batted at his arm--since their manager had gotten a ring on his finger he’d been determined to spread the love--and he’d offered to drop her at home to freshen up. Flush with anticipatory bravado, Lucy had brushed him off.

Which is how she comes to be standing by the door to the warmup lounge, gathering her strength. Inside, someone is plucking out notes on a keyboard.

 _Enough of this._ She huffs and opens the door.

He has his back to her. It’s a good back. Unwrinkled dress shirt, fashionably trimmed black hair, and he’s broad, certainly. And tall. (She doesn’t bother wondering if he’s taller than her, given that nearly everyone is.)

She can’t bring herself to speak, so instead Lucy crosses to the sink in the corner to splash her face, with what she hopes is blasé thoughtlessness. Never mind that she can catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror; his head shoots up as he spots her and he’s--

“ _Lucy?_ ”

It’s been a few years, but she could never forget him.

That voice, gravelly from a teenage smoking habit, and accented enough from his native Croatia that she can hear both deliberate syllables. Those long fingers, as skillful on the keys as they were braced across her back, supporting her as they danced. That face, still scarred at the temple from a brawl with an actor wearing too many rings. Those laserlike eyes. That spreading smile.

(She knows too much.)

“I hardly recognized you.” For a moment he’s off-balance, fumbling to get out of the too-small chair. (God, she had forgotten how _big_ he is.) Then he’s got his bearings, and his smile has turned small and patient, and he’s crossing to her in three strides. 

(Too fast, this is all happening too fast.)

She’s already bristling, uncertain what she’ll do if he stops behind her. But Garcia Flynn is respectful as always, and comes to stand beside her with his hands folded at his back. Not that that makes his once-over any less affecting. “You don’t look any different.”

She gives him a frank, fond look, in spite of herself. “Those two things don’t go together.”

He shrugs. “That depends on your point of view.”

_Brilliant, wonderful, infuriating man._

“Maybe it makes sense with your head in the atmosphere,” she mutters, and fetches a travel wipe from her purse.

“Relax, you look fine,” he drawls. Lucy flashes him a look that forebodes her warning-- _just because you know me doesn’t mean you get to use it_ \--and he corrects course. “Better than ever.”

She highly doubts it, considering the last time he saw her the shadows under her eyes were from stage makeup, not the wearies of a seven-hour flight. Still, it gives her ample opportunity to look him up and down in return. Flynn seems to be expecting something, so she just hums, turning away to wipe her face, and enjoys the little darkening of his eyes.

“You must be hungry,” he ventures. 

(He’s ducking his head to speak to her. She’d always liked that.)

“Are you offering?”

“One dinner.” He rocks on heels and toes. That voice used to melt her. “To catch up. My treat.”

There’s a genuine warmth to his eyes, and for a moment Lucy is tempted to say yes. Being the laser focus of his attention is tempting, and at least this time she knows it will eventually end, and will control the fallout.

“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head and steps away, so she won’t have to see his face. “Dating people in the band is against my policy.” She can’t help it; she turns back to look at him, standing there, powerful and towering and helpless, and wraps her arms around herself. “Bad experiences. You understand.”

Flynn crosses his arms. When he speaks, his voice is clipped. “So this is where we leave it? Strictly professional?”

“I guess so.” She gestures uselessly. “It’s safer.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“Of course not.” She slips a hand into her hair. “All that stuffy, unspoken academic hostility, that’s what I came into this world to escape. But without _some_ sort of boundaries, it’s too easy to get hurt.”

“Dinner--”

“Is a step too far,” she finishes. 

He licks his lips. (She wishes she couldn’t hear him thinking.) “Do I get to know why?”

“I’m not worried about you treating me well, Garcia, because I know you do. But I’m not willing to risk this chance.” His eyes flash, and she admits, “Or you.”

“It’s all right. You can say it.”

“I don’t want to find out if I’m able to forgive you.”

He stiffens, a little. After a second, tries: “We could find out.”

“We’d already be in it; you know that.”

Flynn nods, his jaw tight. He stares at her for another long moment, but there’s nothing left to say. When he turns and stalks away, there’s regret, but also a terrible, ponderous relief. The man will, as always, give her everything.

When he returns to the keys, it takes her a moment to realize what he’s picking out on the strings. _Come on, babe, why don’t we paint the town..._

A second’s still. ( _And all that jazz..._ )

She could jump in there; it’s where the singer comes. 

But she can’t jump. ( _And all that jazz..._ )

And now he’s off again, as if she isn’t there. Lucy’s breathing hard, and starting for the door. It crashes at her back and leaves her standing there, but Flynn--plays--on.

_Slick your hair and wear your buckle shoes..._

Professional. ( _And all that jazz..._ )

He will remember her although he’s not desired.

“ _And all that jazz!_ ”

It’s awkward to slip in mid-verse, but he keeps right up, as she catches the tune and sings behind the door: “ _In case you shake apart and want a brand-new start..._

 _“To do...that...jazzzz._ ”

He picks up speed along the last real verse. And Lucy flies. He might be syncopating, but she’s carried off. Her voice soars high. And he’s getting louder, might be drawing near; but Lucy follows him up, voice and tune combined--

“ _’Cause in the stratosphere, how could he lend an ear?...To all...that...jazz._ ”

The door opens. 

“I will leave if you want me to,” Flynn says into the stillness.

“You don’t know anything about what I want,” Lucy says, and grabs the knot of his tie. Flynn obligingly ducks down to eye level. (He’s close enough now for her to see those kaleidoscope eyes, whose color is confused by the light.) His eyelids lower, and his eyebrows lift.

“I care about this music,” Lucy says, softly. “I care about Rufus. Nothing we do can get in the way of that.”

“In that, we share a common goal.” He’s smirking, and so Lucy helps herself to a kiss.

He’s stiff for a second, processing, before that muscular body melts and resolves itself around her like a support. He adjusts her head for better access, one big hand cradling her cheek.

Lucy comes up for air, eventually. Flynn holds her up, and lowers his head to kiss her neck. “I missed you,” he breathes.

“You don’t say.” She’s attempting to pant with dignity.

“Let me show you how much?”

“If you take it slowly?” Her hands tighten on his shoulders. “I don’t know, yet.”

(She knows after fifteen gigs, seven months, and one night alone in the van, with Flynn’s long fingers peeling down her stockings while he buries her in gin-flavored kisses. In between it all they make up for it with explanations, stolen glances, private dinners, accidents, apologies, last-second gigs, further kisses...and all that jazz.)


End file.
